PadfootandMoony

It's terrifying the thought the consideration the acceptance the realization that unless you do something big huge epic great no one will care. no one will know. and no one, will remember that everything you struggled for had a crazy ridiculous insane reason. it will end. in about ninety years or so, none of this everything will ultimately matter it will not matter who you yelled at nor will it matter what style you followed nor will it matter what grades you received nor will it matter what you deigned to do with 2 hours and a warehouse filled with barrels of asbestos and a box of matches. no one will remember, and nor will you.

When it is eyes that make way for tears When it is time that makes way for thought One can only remark at their own false perception that ten months can dominate the year that a two month stretch will not try his heart so strongly but upon contact with his voice laughter musings it becomes clear you were wasteful that never-mind two months, two days (as you try to stray away from an age-set cliche) is trying every whisper of affection becomes framed each sigh-laden wish becomes an hour-long dream and one is windswept by another. into pungent wistfulness

to me, burnt toast is when the bread is even just slightly brown. burnt toast is like paying for both my ice cream and your ice cream and watching mine fall on the pavement while you lick yours and smile. burnt toast is too crispy, me being too high, me being too ripped, me being too baked. it's smoke in my eyes from your toaster's lungs. burnt toast is jealousy when your toast comes out just fine. burnt toast is spending hours on getting ready when you don’t even acknowledge me. it's standing on my tippy toes but still not being tall enough. burnt toast is you being a boy, me being a girl, and the fact that we could have sex but we jus